prologue

Every story has it's beginning.

Prologue

 

Some believe that their whole life is already planed out. The line of their days written and immovable like the mountains. That thin silver cord that tethers us to a treacherous narrow path that we must walk, they call it fate, or destiny. Walking like condemned men to their final moments unable to run, some crying out to no avail, but all arriving on time at the appointed hour.

 

How about you, reader?  Do your feet walk a path you have no hand in?  Do you believe that whatever will be is what was to be?  If you believe, arev you walking, or being dragged?  It doesn’t really matter, reader. Whether fate is, or isn’t. There is no way to go back and walk another path, so comparison is only conjecture. The point is that you do believe one way or another.

 

Fate it seems has a way of believing in those who believe in it. Wendel Twigsnapper believed in fate as did his younger brother Voom. Wendel and Voom were born in a small village in the enchanted forest of Jo’liath. Their father was the lead hunter, and their mother made honey biscuits that could melt the heart of a troll.

 

I suppose it’s also imperative to mention that they were Brownies. Not the delicious squares of fudge, often topped with walnuts that the big folks are so fond of, but small forest pixies. They have no wings, but make up for that with their ability to find anything in the entire realm of the forest by simply willing to know. Their master, the sylvan spirit of the woods whispers her secrets to only them.  Though they are small, the scope of their lives may be to grand for the mind of big folks used to their small world, for you see a Brownie is but a hand span tall so his world is immense. But enough of the blah, blah… I’m here to recite a tale.

 

The night it all began the bruised sky belched forth hailstones the size of a apples. Wendel and Voom had been away from their home when the raining death came. Wendel’s ears pricked as a telltale breeze tickled the tiny hairs on his chin. He listened to soft voice of the forest. His eyes snapped open and he shouted to Voom.

 

“Danger, brother seek shelter… Fast”, he squeeked as a fallen branch exploded near him, showering the area in rotted wood. As the hail rained down, the brothers ran as fast as their tiny legs would carry them, dodging and leaping until Voom spotted an opening ahead.

They took shelter in the hollowed corpse of an elm that lightning had taken many years ago. The hollow chamber echoed with each impact as the brothers waited with wide eyes. Rotted wood and plump termites rained from above under the merciless assault. As surprising as it’s abrupt arrival was it’s abrupt end. The assault just stopped. As the brothers emerged from their shelter they were stunned to see the once dreary forest alive with streams of golden sunlight.

 

Even more amazing was that the storm had only touched a narrow band of the forest. As they surveyed the damage, Voom suddenly had a realization.

 

“Wendel, it’s heading to the village”, he squeeked.

 

“Mom and dad”, Wendel cried out, and the two grabbed their spears and began to run home.

 

 

In every life must a sad day darken the eyes with sorrow. Wendel and Voom knew this only too well on this day. None had survived the horrible disaster. Their family and friends lie everywhere crushed beneath chunks of ice, now nearly melted by the threads of silky sun that painted the entire scene in a surreal glow. Tears cut pink channels beneath the eyes of the two young brownies, washing clean dirty faces, and draining tiny hearts.

 

They heaped the bodies into a pile in the middle of their once joyous village. Voom said nothing as he labored on, but his empty eyes said what words simply couldn’t. Wendel found their parents next each other twisted and limp... They were still holding hands.

 

And that, reader, is how it began. Two brothers buried in despair. Desperation does strange things to creatures. It can trigger great action, or subdue a person as sure as any prison, building walls of guilt, or sadness, or hate. Despair can shape, and it can twist.